


But Night is Coming (No Pun Intended)

by bastanubis29



Series: The NATM Series I Never Intended to Write [1]
Category: Night at the Museum (Movies)
Genre: College Student Reader, Creampie, F/M, Female Reader, First Times, Oral, PWP, Porn, Smut, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, There's no plot, but it's midnight and I just need to post this and move on with my life, copious dialogue tags, holy shit did I really just write this, not really - Freeform, praise kink (kinda?), soulmate, there could be maybe someday, this is not what i promised my readers, very minimal aftercare i'm sorry, we're assuming Ahk is like 20
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 01:34:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21949117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastanubis29/pseuds/bastanubis29
Summary: Your soulmark? Unreadable.Ahkmenrah? Might be him.[You make passionate love on the breakroom couch.]
Relationships: Ahkmenrah (Night at the Museum)/Reader
Series: The NATM Series I Never Intended to Write [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1582081
Comments: 3
Kudos: 115





	But Night is Coming (No Pun Intended)

**Author's Note:**

> So, this happened. I'm still not sure why or how, but it did. Hopefully my muse will let this idea go and let me write one of my ongoing fics.

The Egyptian wing of the British Museum wasn't your absolute favorite part of the museum, but it was the part that you found yourself sitting most often. Something about it called out to you, and more often than not Tilly would find you there at the end of your shift. When your final tour of the day was finished, you'd sit on the bench at the entrance to the exhibit and stare unseeing into the pharaoh's tomb.

One of your first days on the job, you had practically ran to the exhibit, hoping that it could maybe reveal something about your soulmate. 

When you were six years old, it had appeared on your rib cage during a trip to New York City. The burning pain of the words inscribing themselves into your skin had seared through you, and it was one of your most vivid memories. Another vivid memory was your parents’ utter confusion at the language that your mark was in.

They hired experts, and every single one reached the same conclusion: the name on your ribcage was in an ancient, unrecorded (as far as they knew) dialect of Egyptian hieroglyphics. Issue with that being that no one knew what they said.

This fact led you to be addicted to Egyptian archeology throughout your childhood and most of your teen years. Eventually, however, reality set in. Even if you could find someone to translate, there was no way in hell that anyone alive had the name you wore like a brand.

But when the opportunity to study abroad in England arose, you took it. A paid internship at the British Museum was something that anyone would kill to have, and you would have been an idiot not to take it.

And eventually, that led you back here. Sitting on a pretty uncomfortable wooden bench in the Egyptian wing of the British Museum.

"Heading out?" Tilly asks from behind you, and you startle.

"Yeah," you say, rising from your seat. "Sorry to keep you from doing your job."

"Not a problem, " she laughs. "You know you could hang out if you wanted to. Stick around? Help me close up shop?"

You laugh. "Afraid not. I have class tomorrow, and I can't afford to hang out here much longer. I'll take you up on that offer sometime, though."

She waves goodbye to you, and you head to your locker in the breakroom to gather your things. You reach into your pocket to grab your phone, and it's not there.

"Must have fallen out in the Egypt wing," you mutter, and instead of turning left to head out the front doors, you turn right to head back into the depths of the museum.

Its hella creepy at night, and out of the corner of your eye you think you see something in the shadows move. You fix your eyes on the ground and let muscle memory take you in the direction of the exhibit. 

As you pass the Asia wing, your ribcage burns. Wincing, you lift your shirt enough to see the edges of your mark burn gold. While its given you the odd twinge or two over the years, it has never burned this intensely before.

You shake your head and continue down the corridor. But the shadows seem to crawl with movement, and you walk ever faster, trying your hardest to keep your eyes on the ground. There is no reason for you to be as scared as you are, after all, everything in the museum is dead, wax, or stone.

You are making your way through the middle entrance to the Egyptian exhibit when you hear something clank behind you. Assuming it’s Tilly locking up one of the rooms for the night, you turn around. “Hey, sorry. Left my phone…” your voice trails off as a full suit of armor crosses the Great Court. The stone soldiers from the Asia exhibit march in formation on the other side of the Court, and you grab onto the nearest wall to help support yourself.

“Holy shit,” you mutter as things from exhibits you’ve only ever breezed tours through fly through the air.

Assuming that it is exhaustion that is causing you to hallucinate, you wonder for a moment if you should leave your phone here and just go home to get the sleep you obviously need. Alas, your subway card is in the back of your phone case, and you do not have enough money to take a taxi all the way to your dorm halfway across the city.

Taking a deep breath, you steel yourself to step into the Egyptian exhibit, not quite sure what you are about to find.

It is worryingly, blessedly empty. A quick scan of the ground around the bench you were seated at earlier reveals your phone, and you scoop it up quickly, fully intending to leave immediately.

Your plans are dashed, however, when you turn directly into a beaded chestpiece. Your soulmark burns again, for the second time that night, and you gasp. Your hand flies up to clutch at it, dropping your phone again in the process.

“I’m sorry,” the man attached to the chestpiece says.

“My fault,” you reply. “I wasn’t looking where I was going, though, granted, I really wasn’t expecting anyone else to be in here.”

“That is understandable. I am Prince Ahkmenrah, fourth king of the fourth king, ruler of the land of my fathers.”

“I am (y/n), I hail from the States, and I’m pretty sure that I’m about to faint.” And you do just that.

* * *

You awake on the bench, head cushioned by Ahkmenrah’s lap, and the brightness of the world causes you to close your eyes again.

“Oh, good. You’re alive. I was worried for a moment there that I had scared you to death.”

You exhale heavily. “I’m alive, but at what cost?” you mutter.

The prince shocks you by laughing at this statement, and he slowly helps you sit up.

“If you don’t mind me asking, how is your name spelled?”

You spell it out for him slowly, confused. With each letter you state, his expression brightens.

“It is as I thought, then.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Is it not obvious?” he pulls aside his robes to reveal your name written on his rib cage. “We are destined.”

“Look, man. No offense to you, because I’m sure you’re great, but I’m like ninety percent sure that I’m hallucinating all of this. And on the off-chance that I’m not, I can’t confirm or deny your claim because I can’t read mine.”

“You are illiterate?”

You roll your eyes. “No, your highness. I can’t read my soulmark. No one living can; the language went out of use centuries ago.”

“May I see?” he inquires, and his gaze is hungry as he searches your eyes.

“Subtle,” you mutter, lifting your shirt high enough for him to see the symbols that have lain on your skin for over a decade.

He gaze is searching as it leaves yours and turns toward your exposed abdomen, and his fingers trace each symbol as he reads (you assume) aloud. “Ahkmenrah Khonsuraque. Not often that I see my surname, seeing as it didn’t survive any records.”

Your soulmark tingles as his fingers trace the hieroglyphs again, and he murmurs something in what you have to assume is ancient Egyptian. This scenario is almost too insane for you to believe, but it seems to be happening, and that is enough to convince you that it is.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, and your soulmark flashes gold once more before settling into the skin in the rich red of someone who’s found their soulmate. 

“Holy shit,” you murmur again, and Ahkmenrah looks at you in amusement.

“I’ll admit,” his voice is quiet and his hand stills. “I do not know what the current practice of soulmates is. In my time, we were encouraged to rejoin the souls as soon as possible.”

Your voice shakes as you reply “it’s pretty much the same now.”

“I see,” he says, and you are struck by how  _ young  _ he looks. “This bench is no place for that, however.”

“There’s a couch in the break room,” you offer breathlessly, and he stands almost immediately.

“Shall we?” he offers you his hand, and you take it in yours, allowing him to pull you up to standing.

Wordlessly, you nod, and he sets off until he realizes that he doesn’t really know where the break room is. You smile at him, almost fond, and guide him in the right direction.

* * *

“You should know,” Ahkmenrah says as you unlock the break room door and relock it behind you, “I’ve never really done any of this before.”

“Well, generally,” you breathe, “it starts with a kiss.”

Ahkmenrah takes this as permission and cages you against the door. There’s a moment where you just stare at each other, both nervous and smiley and stupid like teenagers in love. Then, slowly, watching your face for any discomfort, Ahkmenrah joins your lips. 

Yours part with a gasp as they connect, and your eyes flutter shut. Almost immediately, he nips your bottom lip, and your tongues battle for dominance. The kiss quickly becomes heavy, and when you pull away to suck in a shaky breath, Ahkmenrah trails his lips down your throat. You let out an almost inhuman sound, and push at his chest to get him to detach long enough for you to get to the couch.

On the couch with Ahkmenrah over you, it is much easier to see and feel just how much larger than you he is. His body engulfs yours, and he is warm and, in this moment, alive, though you put that thought to the back of your head.

He has rucked your shirt up to your armpits, and you push him away long enough to take it off completely, throwing it to the ground somewhere behind you. For a moment, Ahkmenrah just stares at you, transfixed.

“Off,” you murmur, tugging at his robes, and he is so quick to comply that he almost falls off the couch.

As he is occupied by his own garments, you reach down to unbutton and remove your jeans. You reach down to remove your underwear as well, but he stops you.

“This,” his voice is deep and rough, “this I want to take off you.”

You let out a shaky breath and place your hands on his shoulders, pulling him down for another kiss. As tongues twine, his hands explore your body, tentative, and then more bold. At times when his grip is too rough or hard, he corrects it, soothing smarting skin with his fingertips and palms until you are squirming for other reasons. Your thighs rub together, desperate for friction, and he stops you.

He cups you through your underwear, and you blush, taking your eyes away from his inquisitive gaze.

“So wet,” he breathes. “Is this all for me?”

You nod, embarrassed, and he kisses you briefly on the cheek before sliding down your body.

“Beautiful,” he sighs as he pulls your panties down, revealing your fluttering entrance to him.

A tentative finger glides through the moisture that has gathered, and before you can stop him he places it in his mouth. His pupils are blown wide, almost none of his irises visible and you shiver. Your thighs try to clench together out of habit, and he forces them apart with his hands.

“Incredible,” he murmurs, and your pussy clenches at the praise.

Before you know it, he is lapping at your entrance with his tongue, hands keeping your thighs spread wide apart.

“Ahk,” you breath, and he looks up from his task at you. “Here.” Guiding his hand with yours, you show him where your clit is, and as his fingers play with it, you can feel the knot in your belly tighten just a bit.

There is heady eye contact when Ahkmenrah comes up for air, and his mouth is shiny with your juices. He licks his lips, and in that moment you pull him back up to you. You can taste yourself on his tongue as you kiss again, and your hand snakes down to grip his neglected erection. He gasps into your mouth, and your kiss becomes more intense as you inexpertly rub his cock.

“Gods,” he says, “I want to be inside you. Will you let me, please?”

“Yes,” you breathe back, “Ahk, please.”

His fingers probe your entrance, stretching you quickly and inexpertly. Reaching down, he guides the head of his cock to your wet pussy, spreading your juices up his length as lube. Slowly and gently, he presses his cock into you, and you clench down on the head of it. Your hands scramble for purchase on his shoulders, and he stops moving long enough to squeeze one of your hands in his.

Then, he’s plunging into you, inch by inch until finally his balls are flush against your ass.

“Fuck,” you hiss, and Ahkmenrah lets out something that sounds like a curse in his native tongue.

He presses your foreheads together, waiting for you to adjust so that he can move. Your breathing is shaky, and you feel so  _ full  _ that you fear you’ll burst.

“Move, please,” you whimper, and Ahkmenrah does just that.

Every thrust into you is powerful and forceful, and your eyes water as he fills you again and again. Your hand sneaks down to play with your clit, and when Ahkmenrah notices, he replaces your hand with his. 

“I’m close,” he mutters, fingers rubbing insistent circles on your clit. “You’re so tight; I’m not going to last.”

“Cum inside,” you plead, and his fingers still for a moment before picking up again, rougher and more insistent.

“Come on, princess,” he says. “Cum for me, sweetheart.”

The knot in your belly is tightening at lightspeed, and the moment that you feel him spill inside you, it explodes. Your pussy tightens around him as you orgasm, moaning broken syllables of his name.

When you both come down, he pulls out slowly, and watches with fascination as his cum drips out of you.

“Oh jesus,” you mutter, pressing your thighs together. “That’s gross.”

Ahkmenrah’s eyes are gleaming in a way that you don’t like as he gives you a paper towel, allowing you to wipe up his semen before it gets onto the couch beneath you. 

“Come here,” you murmur once you are clean, “from what I understand, this is where we cuddle.”

Ahkmenrah presses himself up against the back of the couch, turning you gently until your head rests on his bare chest.

“We have a lot to talk about,” you say, and he stiffens.

“Later, though. Just, just hold me, for now.”

“I can do that,” Ahkmenrah murmurs.

The way you are lying, your soulmarks touch. Now you know what yours says, and though you don’t know what daylight will bring, you are ready for whatever comes next.

**Author's Note:**

> You know what? I'm not gonna apologize for this. There are too many unfinished works under the ahkmenrah/reader tag, and I am proud to be one of the finished ones. This is me living my best life. Maybe I'll write more someday. Who knows? I certainly don't.


End file.
